Light On
by VegasGirl09
Summary: "How do you do it?"- "Do what?"-"Never lose faith."-"Some things I hide better than you do"- Russell is pretty good at hiding things. Finn/Russell. Angst.


He caught her picking the lock of his desk drawer in his office late at night when shifts had already started and hers was _supposed _to be over, yet she lingered to snoop. He observed her from the doorway, having noticed the light on still despite thinking he had shut it off, not quite ready to dish out a punishment just yet. She had propped open a case file and was reading it, sitting up on high alert on the desk chair yet unaware of his presence. He watched her eyes move across the page, her face holding an expression of concern, yet she showed no other emotions. Curious himself as to what she felt compelled to snoop at, he cleared his throat and made his presence known at last.

She jumped, bumping her knees on the desk and cursing him.

"What the hell DB?" she snapped, holding her knee, feigning the severity of the pain so he would feel sorry for her.

"I believe I'm the one who should be asking you that," he said entering the office and shutting the door "what the hell Jules?" he held his arms out in offence.

She had no response for him, just a tear-filled gaze.

"What are you snooping at you little thief?" he accused her jokingly, approaching the desk and looking down at the file sprawled across it. His joking attitude faded instantaneously. His eyes landed on photos of her badly bruised and bloody following her attack and subsequent coma in February of two thousand fifteen. His accompanying notes along with the hospital staff's documentation of her myriad of injuries was attached to the photos. The file had grown over the years, since she woke up, since May Winthrop's trial, since discovering Constance Finlay, Julie's biological mother, but this was the page she chose to look at. He thought he had done a better job of securing it from her eyes, shielding her heart from the trauma and her soul from being ripped apart but he had failed; four years, six months, one thousand six hundred and fifty-six days and she had found it.

"Oh," he said, his throat dry, terrified of what was about to happen.

"That's all you have to say?" she snapped at him, breathing harder, her rage building or maybe it was sadness, he couldn't tell just yet and it terrified him.

"Listen Jules," he began but she cut him off.

"Why do you have this?" she asked, pausing then adding a softer, sadder, heart wrenching, soul crushing _"why?"_

He sighed and hung his head, not sure how to even begin to tell her.

"Well Jules, it is a case," he tried which he regretted because she snapped "That's all I am to you, a case?"

"You didn't let me finish," he said, holding up his hands in defense.

"_Look _at me," she sobbed now, pointing at the pictures of her bloody and bruised face, "you told me it wasn't that bad, you promised me, you promised!"

She began flipping rapidly through the pictures, knocking some of the papers onto the floor, each image like a knife to her heart, running her hands through her hair when she saw one of her head after the surgery to relieve the pressure in her skull, wondering how it ever got back to normal after that, covering her hand over her mouth when she saw one of the drag marks on her back from when Winthrop took her out of her condo and into the parking garage, her knees and legs showing bruises to accompany the trauma of being stuffed into a trunk. The images of her mangled body inside that very trunk made her sick to her stomach. They treated her like any other crime scene, snapping these pictures upon her rescue and subsequent hospital visit.

He couldn't stop her. She had a right to know. Even if it pained him severely to watch her react to the photos, ignoring the even greater detailed notes in favor of the visual trauma. He had the urge to snatch it all up and shove it through the paper shredder then scoop her up and hold her and never let her go until she had cried for a thousand hours, that would have been less painful to endure than this, watching her relive it all. When her hand clutched her stomach, he feared her being sick, the office space was spinning for him and her no doubt.

"Jules please," he begged "just stop, put it away."

She looked up at him and screamed "That's the easy way isn't it?" Just throw it in the drawer and forget about it! Forget about what happened, forget about _her_, she's not important!"

She pushed the chair back now and stood up, ready to run either at him or far away from him.

"I trusted you," she howled, breaking his heart "you said- you told me everything- everything that happened- but you _lied_!"

She whimpered the last word to him, and it was the coup de grace to his heart. She had cut open his soul with her words and he was bleeding out in front of her. But his silence, his delay was hurting her further and she stomped her foot before pushing the file off his desk, scattering the papers and photos all over the floor, her final act in this play of her trauma and pain. She abandoned the space behind the desk and hurried past him, wanting to escape, to run, to never look back.

But he grabbed her with both hands, the force of her attempt to escape knocking him back a few steps. He was stronger, he didn't understand how but she couldn't push past him or maybe she didn't want to. Her weakened state forced her to retreat instead of fight, even though her sobs and burying of her face in his chest told a different story.

"You _are_ important," he found his voice at last to tell her "you_ do_ matter Jules, damn it, would you listen to me, why the hell do you think I saved it, all of it? Because it reminds me of what you went through, what you _survived, _what you beat, you beat that son of a bitch, no one else,_ you_."

He was right, as much as it pained her to admit, he was, and likely always would be. It didn't stop her from raising her hand into a fist and hitting him once but weakly, angry at herself for letting this get to her, angry that it took this long for her brain to make the connection that he might be hoarding these files somewhere and the best time to look was tonight. He deserved that punch, he knew, she knew it, it hardly hurt and there would be no bruise because she didn't really mean it. She just needed to let out her pain and frustration.

"Who- else- knows?" she asked, muffled from where she still hid in his arms, broken because of her sobs punctuating each word.

"Everyone," he admitted, fearful of another blow but they had all seen her that night and, in the days, and weeks after, watching those bruises slowly heal and her real face come back to life.

She acknowledged that horrifying and slightly embarrassing thought by pushing her forehead hard against his chest, wanting to hide there forever but also knowing she couldn't.

Her silence scared him; her sobs had quieted at last but at what cost to her heart?

"I'm sorry," he said, for what it was worth "but I can't throw it away, I hope you can understand."

She nodded and pulled back from him at last, her face red from crying and losing her temper but her eyes conveying understanding at last. She sniffled and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand clumsily, repeatedly until most of the tears had been wiped away.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" she asked now, shifting uncomfortably from side to side.

"I don't know," he admitted truthfully running his hand through his hair, how did one person decide when to share something so horrible with someone else?

She shifted her gaze to the floor where the files and photos had scattered.

"Sorry," she mumbled embarrassed "I shouldn't have done that."

"You had every right to," he reminded her.

They both knelt down at the same time and began picking at the papers one by one, gathering them up and placing them back in order in the file folder. He watched her eyes take in details of them, but she no longer cried or felt enraged. There was an odd sense of peace over her. There would always be something to say about her and what she endured, a memory, an emotion, something would send her spiraling, but she always found a way back.

"So uh, Barbara's making that vegetable soup you like," he said trying to be casual after the blow up "you're welcome to come over and eat, stay the night if you want, Maya and Katie are in town, they would love to see you."

"I guess I can," she said, shrugging, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand again.

"Good," he said nodding in approval, relieved that she wasn't shutting him out or isolating herself after what just happened.

He secured the file back in his desk drawer, locking it tight, standing in front of her with an open hand which confused her for a moment, then, upon realizing what he wanted, she sighed and handed over the pin and file she used to pick the lock with. He shook his head in disappointment and knew she would easily find another set to do it again with, but for now, he had stopped her.

"Come on," he encouraged her, marching her out of the office "lets get out of here."

She gathered her purse and allowed him to guide her out of the space and into the hallway. He turned back, only to make sure he had not left the light on before leading her out into the night.


End file.
